


Drop gloves, soft hands, can't lose

by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski are Neighbors, Dumb Hockey Boys, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, National Hockey League, Neighbors, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dearericbittle
Summary: Stiles Stilinski, hockey’s new wild child (sorry Tyler Seguin, you’re officially too old to be called a child) has been traded to the Wolves. Let’s all hold a prayer circle for poor Derek Hale, who’s going to be stuck on his wing. The C is a gift, they say. Not for this guy.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 59
Kudos: 449





	Drop gloves, soft hands, can't lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [christinesficrecs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinesficrecs/gifts), [literaryoblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryoblivion/gifts).



> More fic for Sterek bingo, prompts: ice, rivals, neighbors. 
> 
> Disclaimer: everything I know about hockey is a combination of Check Please, hockey fanfic and two years of playing floorball in college. Also, this takes place in a world where the Dallas Stars win the 2020 Stanley Cup (because I can make that happen in fic if nowhere else), and where homophobia in the NHL is way less rampant. Any resemblance to real events is coincidental, and any mentions of real players are purely there to set the scene. Alright, I’m off to watch hockey vids (and by hockey vids I mean watching BGally lip sync to the B99 cold open with BSB’s “I want it that way”) and stare at my hockey husband.

Derek hasn’t been captain of the Wolves for very long, only about half a season, when the Stilinski trade happens. He doesn’t know what uncle Peter promised the management of the Sparks (his firstborn, hopefully, because if Peter ever manages to reproduce someone should make sure the child has some decent influences), but somehow he managed to persuade them to trade away their star. Or their problem child. Or both. 

Because Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski? His middle name is probably trouble. 

Not that Derek knows all that much about his personality other than the stuff that’s covered on Deadspin. And even though Deadspin is mostly filled with leeches who enjoy giving the middle finger to privacy, they manage to paint a pretty accurate picture of the personality of the supposedly great Stiles. 

Or so Derek assumes, because he hasn’t actually met him off the ice before. They don’t exactly run into the same circles. Stilinski is a wunderkind, drafted first overall to the Sparks, winning the Stanley Cup with them in his first year and taking them mostly towards the playoffs before being traded in his second year. 

Shit, Stilinski is barely even twenty years old. He is a child that Derek is supposed to babysit. 

He wasn’t a good babysitter for Cora - his mind has always been on hockey and the Wolves - but he is determined to do better with Stilinski. Even though he’s pretty sure that Stilinski is going to resent being pulled away from his Cup-winning team to a barely middle of the road team that hasn’t made the playoffs in about a decade, with a mediocre captain who probably only got drafted as high as he did (fifth round, barely) because of nepotism. 

Yeah, he’s not expecting Stilinski to take that well. How does one handle a teenage superstar’s temper tantrum? 

Derek is only twenty-four himself, and he’s managed to claw his way from the AHL to the NHL slowly. People have never expected much of him - the owner’s nephew, with a supposed spoiled temperament and no skills with the media or his fellow players. And Derek still isn’t very good at proving them otherwise. He works his ass off, all the damn time, and some of their rookies from the last few years actually managed to make it to the show… But the Wolves are a joke. Derek Hale, wearing the C for his uncle’s team, is a joke. 

And Stilinski will be one of the many laughing. 

So while Derek does his captainly duty, texting the new arrival the second the news reaches him (through Peter, always through Peter) and trying a mostly courteous welcome to the team… His heart isn’t in it. He dreads Stilinski’s appearance, even though he hardly has any time to dread when he’s busy keeping morale up even though Whittemore is leaving them for the Sparks. 

The kid isn’t unhappy, he’s always thought his skills merited more than the Wolves, even though they happily used him as their first round draft pick almost three years ago. Derek had felt lucky then, with some fresh blood on the team to maybe make a real go of it. 

Nothing had changed, not really. Lahey and Boyd, the rookies they acquired this past season, have performed far better than expected (Lahey is tall and lanky and very, very fast on the wing, and Boyd is the best D-man Derek has ever played with). It hasn’t been enough, really, not yet, not when Ennis keeps getting ejected from games and the second line twin D-men always had issues with Whittemore. 

At least that problem is solved now. But it’s one of many. 

Stilinski is just the latest one, the problem that’s making him antsy during optional skate. Everyone has turned up, because they’re all waiting for their new first line center’s dramatic entrance. He’s already late on his first day. 

Derek is not surprised. He’s just disappointed, because this is a fresh start for Stilinski (or at least, that’s how they’re framing it for the media) and he’s just throwing it away. 

“He’ll be here,” Boyd reminds him during stickhandling drills. 

“Only because he has to be,” Lahey rolls his eyes before stealing the puck. 

There is a loud noise then, and the whole team slowly comes to a stop. No one even gives Coach Deaton a second glance, not when a lanky silhouette skates onto the ice, not wearing pads or much of anything other than Underarmour underneath his brand new Wolves jersey. Stilinski’s holding his helmet, carelessly weaving across the ice and already looking bored. 

“You’re late, Stilinski,” Coach Deaton tries for a semblance of authority. 

“The dog ate my homework, teach,” Stilinski responds to that by immediately mouthing off to the Coach, like the fucking teenage brat he is. “I swear I did it. But my car broke down and by then it was far too late for the school bus. Please don’t put me in detention.” 

Derek is going to fucking kill him. He might actually let out a growl at Stilinski’s casual disrespect of their coach. Of his mother’s old friend, who’d been nothing but good to the Wolves for the past decade and a half. Sure, his instructions weren’t - and aren’t - always clear, but he does the best with the limited resources they have. 

“It’s Jackson 2.0,” Isaac mutters at Derek as they wait for Deaton’s response. “New and improved and even more of an asshole. I didn’t even know that was possible.” 

Stilinski thinks he’s the hottest thing on skates. And sadly, if he’s even half as talented as people say he is, he might be the hottest thing in the Wolves arena. But Derek didn’t get to where he is today just because of nepotism - he worked twice as hard as everyone else, sacrificed any semblance of a personal life and trained until his body almost fell apart on him. He can out-stubborn this brat any day of the week. 

“A sense of humor,” Deaton’s deadpan sounds out through the stadium. 

“Please,” Peter has to make an appearance too, “let me know if you have any decent chirps to contribute. I like you Stilinski. You have potential.” 

And as usual, Peter is creepy as ever. The look on Stilinski’s face as he gets the Peter Hale’s favorite treatment is worth its weight in gold. Derek has seen that look on many a rookie’s face before, and he’s almost hoping that Peter will keep at it, keep Stilinski off his game a little. Maybe that way he’ll stay within the metaphorical lines at least a little. 

Yeah, Derek won’t put any money on that. 

“Can someone put your creepy uncle on a leash?” Lahey is a little shit, but he’s not wrong. “I miss the days when he wasn’t as involved in the team. Like, last week.” 

Somehow, for some reason, the trade deadline is the only thing keeping Peter at all interested in what the team is doing. Mostly he’s the money man, but occasionally he comes up with a terrible idea for the team that they just have to try. And because he knows how to grease the right palms, he usually gets his way too. 

He’s impossible to live with, and Derek is ecstatic that family gatherings are few and far between. Because it’s just the two of them, and that’s hardly a family. 

“Deaton, you’re fired,” Peter interrupts. “Starting tomorrow, Chris Argent will come whip you children into shape. Seems we could use the help.” 

Is that bad idea number #7 or #8 this season? Derek hasn’t exactly kept track of them as well as he probably should have. Not if this is the kind of stunt Peter pulls, firing the coach openly, in front of the whole team, undermining the man’s authority and effectively canceling practice because of it. 

“Great, that means I can leave,” Stilinski yawns exaggeratedly. 

“Stilinski,” Derek finally decides to speak up. “How about we run some drills, since you bothered to show up? We have a game against the Blackhawks in two days, and you can be damn sure that Kane and Toews don’t give a shit that you just got here.” 

Derek is not looking forward to going up against that dynamic duo - sure, Chicago hasn’t been at the top of its game this season, but if the terrible twosome has their shit together to some extent, the Wolves are fucked. They are legends for a reason, with several Cups under their belts, and the Wolves are a podunk team with a capricious owner who apparently has no idea what the hell he’s doing. And they need every damn point they can get. 

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Stilinski’s eyes are like honey-colored lasers, aiming straight for the C on Derek’s chest. “I think I can keep up with you without extra practice. I have a farewell party to sleep off. And this is still optional skate, as far as I know.” 

Of course Stilinski is an arrogant brat, all bravado that isn’t technically unfounded. He is not wrong about being good, his rookie stats put him on the level of the two-headed monster - or well, they could, if he bothers to put in the effort. His sophomore slump has been documented in a rather spectacular manner (Deadspin, naturally), but even when in a slump, this guy can outscore most of the guys on this team. It’s just that he knows it, too well. 

There is no authority, not without a coach. As a Captain, Derek’s job is to keep the team together, to not let them fall apart over a change in coaches. So maybe that should be his first priority, and Stilinski will just have to wait. 

“He’s an ass,” Boyd says, watching Stilinski walk away. “He makes baby Seguin look like a perfectly-behaved Stepford robot.” 

Boyd is actually not wrong. Sure, Derek’s only met Seguin a couple of times, all of them after the drama of the trade had started to settle. They’ve played against each other a couple times a year, and while Seguin can be dramatic and a brat and a jokester (or so Jamie Benn says), he’s grown up quite a bit. Derek just has the feeling that Stilinski will be worse - and he’s not sure he has the patience to wait for the kid to grow the fuck up already. 

Fuck, maybe he needs to get in touch with Benny, captain to captain. Because something he did clearly worked for them. The Stars are headed straight for the playoffs, and their record this season has been pretty damn good, at least lately. That is exactly where he wants the Wolves to be in a couple of years. Or sooner than that, but he’s trying to be realistic here. 

“How would you know?” Danvers, one of their vets, comes in with the chirp. “I don’t think you were even born yet when Seguin was a Bruin.” 

Ah yes, hockey players. Any opportunity for chirping and pranks, and they’ll take it. Derek is completely unsurprised. And Danvers is the master of putting arrogant rookies in their place - not that that’s necessary when it comes to Lahey and Boyd. They usually manage to have a handle on things, even as nineteen-year-olds playing their second season in the NHL. 

It’s good that they have each other though, surrounded by supposedly old men like this. Hell, even Derek is a young one compared to most of the guys on the team. 

“Need your walker, old man?” Lahey sticks up for Boyd right away, as usual. “A set of glasses and a big candle for your speech about the good old days?” 

Danvers laughs and takes the joke as it is intended - really, sometimes Derek wonders why they hadn’t given him the C, no matter that he’d probably retire within the next year or so. Nothing had been announced yet, but Danvers was not getting any younger. Maybe after next season he’d hang up his skates and spend time with his family. 

“Alright, alright,” it’s still Derek’s job to maintain a semblance of order here. “I’ll deal with Stilinski later. Anyone who wants to is welcome to keep running drills. If you want to talk, grab me or one of the A’s. The Blackhawks are coming to our doorstep in two days. We have work to do.” 

Not the rousing speech he’s supposed to be giving, but he is still more than a little off-kilter after all of the revelations of this morning practice. 

“I hope your walls are thick,” Boyd tells him before dragging a couple pucks in their direction. “Because your new neighbor does not look like a very quiet guy.” 

Fuck. 

Babysitting includes living next door to Stilinski. He’d forgotten all about that. 

Hopefully Stilinski has as well. 

* * *

Turns out, Stilinski does not forget a damn thing. 

He sure as hell doesn’t forget Derek’s existence, and he seems to take pleasure in annoying the fuck out of Derek everywhere he goes. Stilinski does the bare minimum in practice, and never bothers to show up for optional skate - because he doesn’t give a shit. 

They need to play him regardless. They don’t have better options. Sure, they have other guys, but none of them are even half as good as Stilinski, and he knows it. 

Either way, they’re fucked, and Derek hates it. 

“Ready?” Derek’s pounding on Stilinski’s door before their first road trip together. 

It’s not even ass o’clock in the morning this time, and yet Stilinski is keeping him waiting, stumbling around loudly in his apartment (something he enjoys doing at all hours, keeping Derek awake by any means necessary, because he’s a petty little shit). Derek’s got all of his gear, bags packed and wearing one of three almost identical suits - because he doesn’t actually give a damn about the clothes they wear outside of the rink. 

Stilinski, apparently, is still packing up. Because he’s the most unprofessional asshole that Derek has ever had to work with - and he’s worked with Ennis for years. 

“In a minute,” Stilinski sounds bored. 

It almost seems like he’s keeping Derek waiting just because he can, and really, Derek would not be surprised if that really were the case. Most of what Stilinski’s been doing over the course of the past few days has been designed to make Derek hate him. The loud music at all hours, the even louder bed partners (male and female, and maybe even both at some point), the barely putting in any effort to work with his liney and captain… It’s designed to mess with him. 

“I’ll be in the car,” Derek decides he’s done waiting. “I leave in two minutes. If you’re not there, you can walk. Hope you have a good excuse for missing the plane.” 

Yeah, it’s petty, and childish, but it feels really fucking good to be the one calling the shots. Because honestly, he’d rather play with some AHL call-up who can barely handle a puck (not that their call-ups are  _ that _ awful) than deal with Stilinski. He’s the captain of this team, and he’s put in the work to get there, and maybe Stilinski will do better with some discipline. Maybe getting sidelined as a healthy scratch by his coach will do him some good. 

Because honestly, Derek has no idea of how to get through to him in any other way. 

So he sits and stews, wishing he was back home with his sisters, fucking around in Laura’s classic Camaro and having a life outside of hockey. He bites his tongue (metaphorically, not literally this time, because it fucking hurts), because he doesn’t get to have any of that anymore. Any life he wanted to have outside of the rink burned to ashes with his familial home. 

And his family. 

Except Peter. At least he still has Peter. That’s supposed to be a blessing. 

“What are we waiting for?” Stilinski’s there, suddenly, throwing his shit in the back. 

“Your lazy ass,” Derek mutters, and peels off as soon as the doors are closed. 

They make their flight with only a minute or so to spare, and Derek lets Coach Argent have another go at impressing the importance of being on time onto Stilinski. It won’t work, but at least that lengthy lecture keeps both Stilinski and Argent far away from him. 

He doesn’t have the energy to deal with either of them. Though at this point, he almost prefers Argent. That’s saying something. 

Argent’s sister killed most of Derek’s family, and got away with it, somehow. 

“Heavy is the head,” Boyd drawls as Derek drops down into the seat next to him. 

“The C is a gift,” Isaac argues from the row behind them. “That’s what they say. If I had to deal with Stilinski up my ass all the time, I’d return it. That’s no gift I want or need.” 

At least he still has his Pack, that’s what Erica calls them anyway. Boyd’s fiancee is a constant reminder of Laura in only the best ways, and since Derek is perpetually single - and Isaac isn’t interested in anything that lasts longer than twenty-four hours - she’s their only representative in the WAGs - which, at some point there has to be a less…  _ straight _ alternative to that one. Derek is pretty sure Ethan is the twin with the boyfriend. 

Why doesn’t that guy object to being a WAG? 

Right, not the point. Overcoming the NHL’s inherent homophobia is a slow process. At least Derek can be out - and he isn’t even the only one. 

“At least I have my own room on the road,” Derek sighs, already looking forward to it. “I’m sure Stilinski will be right next door again, but at least we won’t share a room. I haven’t actually made it into that circle of hell. Yet. The sexiling will have to wait.” 

Stilinski seems like the type to hook up with whichever puck bunny is giving him the time of day - Derek hasn’t managed to run into any of his local hook-ups (only because he’s good at the avoidance game), but he wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are familiar faces. Isaac’s gone through most of them over the course of the last season and a half. 

“Maybe the next time the boss decides to hate your guts again,” Isaac sees the sunny side in things, as usual. “He’s been almost nice to you, so he’s due for another episode.” 

Sometimes it really fucking sucks to have your uncle as your boss - especially when said uncle has  _ Issues _ \- enough of them to outlast Rolling Stone magazine. Peter has never been the same since the fire, and while Derek isn’t exactly the same bratty teen he’d been before either, he’s managed to stay sane (with a whole fucking lot of therapy). The same cannot be said for Peter. 

So Isaac has a point. Peter knows Derek too well, and if he decides that Derek is not working hard enough, he will absolutely torture Derek some more. Stiles appears to be his favorite instrument of torture at the moment. 

Derek can’t blame him. He’s just so effective. 

“Poor Hale,” Stilinski’s managed to find a seat across the aisle. “Is your silver spoon not up to your usual standards? Uncle Dearest no longer tucking you in every night?” 

Ah yes, the nepotism jokes. Hilarious. 

Sucks for Stilinski that Derek’s grown mostly immune to them by now. He’s heard them for the entirety of his professional career, and there’s only so many times you can hear something before it loses all its grip on you. 

“He thought you’d come do it for him,” Derek pointedly rolls his eyes at Stilinski. “But you’re too busy going through all of Lahey’s sloppy seconds.” 

Ugh, crass, but it will do the trick. He doesn’t usually like disrespecting the people sleeping with hockey players - even though he doesn’t understand what the attraction is. 

“Did you want me to read you a bedtime story?” Stilinski seems to laugh it off. “Let me guess, Goodnight Moon is a team favorite.” 

Seeing as they’re called the Wolves. Wow, creative. 

“Your mom would know,” Lahey snipes on Derek’s behalf. 

“You can shut the fuck up about my mother,” Stilinski practically launches himself at Lahey. 

Great. That’s just great. 

All that and Stilinski can’t even handle a “your mama” joke. Even Derek’s managed to handle them for years, and his mother died almost a decade ago. 

He cannot believe he has to babysit this idiot. 

* * *

It’s rough, having to stare at Coach Argent’s face almost daily, when all he can see is Kate’s impish grin reflected in her brother’s eyes. All he sees is the way she used to laugh when he awkwardly tried to sound more adult than he was, tried to impress his coach. A coach who had actual medals (several of them), and instead of wasting her talents on the NHL (her words), she’d chosen to mentor the next generation. 

Also her words. Though Derek hadn’t known that mentoring and murdering had the same definition to Kate Argent. He hadn’t known that she’d been one of Peter’s disgruntled exes - one of many, so very many - out for revenge against his entire family. He hadn’t known he was being targeted, being groomed, being manipulated. He hadn’t known until everyone was dead. 

And now, somehow Peter has lost his goddamn mind again and hired an Argent to coach the Wolves. Peter, who took it hardest, who blamed himself for everything, but blamed the Argents even more. According to him, they should have known what Kate was doing. 

Chris Argent has always sworn that they didn’t. Peter never believed him. Until now. 

“I know Coach is hot,” Stilinski can’t even check him properly when Derek is distracted, “but aren’t you the guy who’s always telling me to make an effort? Make an effort, Hale.” 

Fucking Stilinski needs to get off his dick already. The brat is taking every opportunity he can to make fun of Derek, to make him feel worthless, like a shit player and an even shittier captain. And unlike the nepotism jokes, these comments land. Hard. 

Because Derek knows, okay? He knows he’s not a great player, the likes of Crosby or Malkin or Seguin or Kane or Toews or even that child McDavid. Hockey Jesus.  _ Jesus _ . Derek is very aware that he comes up short in every possible way. 

Unlike Stilinski. Stilinski is the next wunderkind, the one people will be talking about years from now. About how it was a shame that the NHL wasted his talent by ditching him with the Wolves - or about how lucky it was for him that he got traded away from the Wolves. It’s not like Stilinski doesn’t have other options - better options. He might force a buy-out in the off-season for all Derek knows. Or some other team will pay an exorbitant fee to get their hands on him. 

He’s  _ that _ good. 

“Good to see you practicing what you preach,” the chirp is weak, but at least he’s said something. “Now if you could actually work with me or Lahey instead of turning everything into the Stilinski show, we might actually get somewhere.” 

In practice it might almost be charming, the dangling and the twirls and the spin-o-rama tricks that Stilinski always pulls out. In a game, it’s going to get them flattened. They can barely pull out a win, even in overtime, and maybe if Stilinski starts acting like a part of the fucking team, maybe then they’ll actually get some points. They need those points. 

The playoffs are a lost cause again, as they have been for the entirety of Derek’s professional hockey career, but that doesn’t mean that they should just give up entirely. If they don’t use this time to better themselves, they might as well give up on next season before it’s started. 

“It’s not my fault that you’re fucking slow,” Stilinski grins so smugly that Derek wants to wring his skinny little neck. 

No one is as fast as Stilinski - but being the fastest player on the ice isn’t the point of a hockey game. The kid needs to learn to be tactical about using his speed, instead of just showing off. He could be using it to make the impossible passes connect, the one Derek keeps passing at him because he knows what the kid could be doing if he made a goddamn effort. 

Derek knows exactly where Isaac will be, and he’s starting to figure out where Stilinski could be if he learns to play like a part of a line, instead of a loose cannon. If only Stilinski would put in the effort to at least attempt to figure out where Derek and Isaac will be - waiting for passes that never reach their sticks. Because to Stilinski it’s only interesting if he can get it to the goal all by himself, completely unassisted. And he may be good, but no one is that good. 

Not when there’s a whole team faced off against him. 

“It’s not my fault that you’re lazy,” Derek bites out. “That you’re not a team player, and you think banking on talent and luck will get you places. You are never going to get out of here if you don’t start putting in the damn work. Listen to the coach. Prove them wrong.” 

It’s easy to see which bit riles Stilinski up like nothing before. It’s the last bit, alluding to the people who’ve already dismissed him as a one-hit wonder, the people who’ve already closed the book on Stilinski’s professional career. 

That’s the thing that Stilinski can’t stand to hear - but also the thing he refuses to do something about. Because he  _ can _ \- do something about this. He can make this work. 

“For someone so stupidly hot, you’re entirely too serious,” Stilinski tells him, trying to play off the direct hit Derek just landed. 

“Nice deflection,” Derek just rolls his eyes. 

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, and it’s just like Stilinski to bring it up now. The ESPN might have completed their run of the body issue, but there have been jokes about Derek doing a shoot. Shame he isn’t a better player, is usually the joke that follows. 

So Derek weaponizes his looks instead, builds his body for strength to check someone off the puck, for speed on the ice, for endurance - instead of for beauty. He’s broken bones before, and he’s worked through hellish pains before and after surgeries. Maybe at some point they’ll stop calling him hot and start calling him talented. 

But he isn’t counting on that ever happening. So he just works a little bit harder. Or a lot. 

“Are you blushing, big guy?” Stilinski keeps pressing on the sore spot, because that’s just who he is. “Very cute. Shame blushing doesn’t help you score.” 

Look who’s talking - Stilinski could be just as bad with the blushing (at least he was once). Derek has done his research by now, he’s seen the way Stilinski had looked at Parrish, one of the Sparks players (admittedly an attractive one). He knows Stilinski is out, knows he looks at both the players and their girlfriends - and he’s heard the evidence next door. He just doesn’t think Stilinski would still blush like that now. Not like Derek still does. 

Fuck, he hates having such an obvious tell. It’s a good thing Stilinski hasn’t found out about Derek’s chin thing, something Laura called the ‘I’m thinking of letting you bone me’ chin dip. He misses her a lot - all the time - but he doesn’t miss her knowing everything he’s thinking. She used to call that their twin powers. 

Twin powers activate. Except not anymore. Because Laura’s gone, and there’s half of him missing, and always will be. And no one fucking understands, and  _ fuck _ Stilinski for putting those thoughts into his head,  _ fuck him _ for making Derek hear Laura in his head. He wonders what she’d think of Stilinski, and he has a feeling that it would have been embarrassing as fuck, because that was exactly the kind of person Laura was. 

But he’ll never know. Because she’s gone. 

“Shame being an asshole doesn’t actually get you anywhere,” Derek knows practice is almost over, and they’ve accomplished very little - again. “How about you shove it and show us how to give a proper assist? I haven’t seen one yet. Not from you. It’s not all about scoring.” 

Yes, the double entendre is particularly pleasing this time around, especially if Stilinski is going to continue to be an asshole about Derek’s looks. It’s not like he has room to talk - he’s not bad-looking for a teenage brat. He’ll grow into his body and all the boys and girls will put Stilinski posters on their wall. If he manages to get over himself, of course. 

Derek doesn’t think that’ll happen any time soon, but maybe Stilinski can still surprise him. 

“You’d say that,” Stilinski just has to have the last word. 

Clearly, he’s been summarily dismissed - or maybe not, because Stilinski actually gets himself in the right place to start their drill. Much to both Derek and Lahey’s surprise. 

Isaac has the puck, passing to Derek, and when Derek takes a deep breath, he knows exactly where Stilinski is going to be. He doesn’t look, he just passes and heads in the direction of the goal. If Stilinski has been listening at all, he’ll get Derek the puck. 

Seconds later, Derek gets the puck back. It hits the back of the net, as if the goalie isn’t even there. No rebound necessary. 

Derek turns to look at Stilinski and gives him a nod. It’s a start. 

* * *

Most of the time, chemistry doesn’t just happen. It takes time and hard work, and months and months of trying line combinations and going back and forth until something clicks. 

But clearly Stilinski is still determined to buck the odds, now that he’s actually bothering to give a damn about the team and not just himself. Now that he actually wants to be in the game again, wants to win instead of just wanting to show off… It’s working. 

Derek does not like giving Chris Argent any goddamn credit, but something about their drills in practice has paid off, because it’s like Stilinski has developed a sixth and seventh sense for just exactly where Derek and Lahey are at any point in time. All of their passes are connecting, and in front of the home crowd too - their last game before a lengthy road trip, culminating in the game at the Sparks’ stadium. Stilinski’s first against his old team. 

Obviously, Stilinski’s nervous about it, but it doesn’t show. Not right now, not while they’re completely bulldozing the Ducks in front of half-filled stands. Which is a lot better than it had been earlier this season - ticket sales have gone up since Stilinski got traded. Even as a train wreck, he made good entertainment for the bored masses. 

Nothing like tonight, though. Tonight, Stilinski is on fire, in a way that Derek has never seen before, not from anyone. Tonight, Stilinski wants the win more than anyone, more than anything. Derek could wonder why, but really, why would he? He’s just happy Stilinski cares at all, and that their line is connecting, and that Lahey managed to get the first goal off a perfect pass from Stilinski. Derek doesn’t need any points for himself, if they can just get the win. 

“Your turn,” Lahey tells him on the bench. “Come on, Hale. Show us why you’re Captain.” 

It’s only the first period, and the Ducks still haven’t figured out what hit them, and how they’re supposed to deal with it, so Derek hopes that they can keep riding this lead until they get another chance. They just have to keep fighting. 

“It’s Stilinski’s turn,” Derek argues, gently nudging his center. “You’re on fire tonight. You deserve a goal or two. We’ll make it happen.” 

Stilinski doesn’t even have a smartass comment, focused as he is on the game. 

When they hit the ice for their next shift, Derek manages to throw their winger off the puck, passing to where he knows Stilinski will be waiting. The goal horn is loud in his ears, leaving him almost stunned at the ease of that play, before he gets affectionately thrown into the boards by Stilinski - because that’s the kind of shit he thinks passes as a celly, the asshole. Derek patronizingly pats his helmet, because he can be a dick too. 

“Atta boy,” he smirks. “Think you can do that again?” 

“Keep passing and we’ll see,” Stilinski grins, fiddling with his mouthguard a little. 

The kid has a serious oral fixation, and Derek would be worried about him if he didn’t find it so fucking distracting. He wonders how many of their opponents have gotten distracted by it, and hopes it’s enough that he doesn’t have to feel too guilty himself. 

Derek shoots a grin at Boyd, who’d rushed to be a part of the celly, and then gets ready for the next play. This isn’t over yet. Who knows, maybe he’ll get to have a three point night? It’d be a career best for him - which is pathetic, he knows. But he wants. 

And apparently Stilinski knows how much he wants it, because at the top of the second period, he lands the perfect pass on Derek’s stick, making it the easiest thing in the world to get the puck in the five-hole. A goal. Derek’s goal. With Stilinski, off a pass from Boyd. The team is working, meshing, operating like a machine instead of a cheap wind-up toy. 

By the end of the third, Derek finds himself on hatty watch, something that’s never happened for him before. One goal a game is usually the best he can do - his skills lie mostly in eating post again and again and again. But this, this is chemistry, this is magic, Lahey and Stilinski both getting credited for the assists on his second goal, and Danvers managing to dangle a true beauty of a goal in to close the second. 

The Ducks are dying, only one goal to answer for five goals from the Wolves. Lahey, Stilinski, Hale, Danvers, Hale. Stats the likes of which he’s never seen before. 

With two minutes to go in the third, they get a power play, and Derek doesn’t want to consider the possibility that this might be it. He can’t be focused on getting himself a goal, he has to think of the team - if he can just get the puck to Lahey or Stilinski, they can finish it. 

But once again Stilinski seems to know exactly where Derek will be, allowing Derek to finish it off yet again. Earning him his first career hat trick. A hat trick. Derek Hale, a hat trick, three goals and an assist. Four points, and a hat trick. 

The stunned crowd starts throwing hats on the ice, and Derek is frozen mid-celly, Lahey and Boyd pressed into his sides and Stilinski half wrapped around him. If the kid could bounce on skates, he would have. 

“Five point night, bitches,” Stilinski hollers in Derek’s ear. “Guess you can score after all, Cap.” 

Honestly, Derek hardly even minds that his hat trick is just an afterthought for Stilinski. Because five points is a highlight even for Stilinski, possibly enough for people to take notice of him again - which is all he wants, really. 

Still, Derek wonders why he didn’t try to get a hatty of his own. 

They massacre the Ducks 7-1, with Stilinski’s final goal coming in just seconds before the end of the game. They’re breathing hard, panting into each other’s necks, and Derek is pretty sure that he will fall over the second he gets off the ice, but… They did it. Together. 

“Six points, Stilinski,” Derek reminds him. “That’s a Wolves record and a personal record. Guess you’ve earned a bit of that ego. And a lot of media time.” 

Wait, fuck, Derek got a hat trick. He’s going to have to do media. Fuck. 

* * *

The game against the Sparks is not as awful as he expected it to be. They lose, because of course they do, but it’s not a complete massacre. 

Sure, Derek has to pull Stilinski off Whittemore at some point, because he’s a goddamned moron who apparently thinks this is the time to be getting the Gordie Howe hat trick. But they were tied for most of the second and third period (goals going back and forth most of the night), only losing because of a beautiful shot from Parrish that was one for the All-Star reel. 

The fact that Whittemore scores again after that is disappointing, but not completely unexpected. A final score of 5-3 is better than Derek ever could have expected, especially against a team that already has its playoff spot all locked up. Earlier this season, when they played the Sparks, they lost 6-1, with a lucky bounce from Whittemore their only point on the scoresheet. Sure, Derek had gotten a point for the assist, but there was no skill to that one. 

This is better. This is a lot better. 

Still, he needs to have a word with Stilinski, because if there’s going to be fighting, he’d best leave it to guys like Boyd, or one of the twins. Stilinski is not built to fight. 

“What the hell was that?” Derek lays into Stilinski the second the locker room door closes behind them. “Look, you did good all throughout the game, but did you have to try and punch Whittemore in that snobby face of his? I know it’s a very punchable face. But still.” 

The impulse to punch Jackson Whittemore in the face is certainly not a foreign one to Derek - not that he’d ever allowed himself to go that far. Because they were on the same team until very recently, and punching one’s own teammates was sure to get him punished by Peter. Stilinski clearly did not have the same issues, and Derek didn’t object to the principle as much as to the person committing the act. It shouldn’t be Stilinski fighting. 

“It’s a very punchable face,” Lahey vehemently agrees, trying to get in the middle of things, because he abhors locker room fights. 

“Just leave it to Boyd next time,” Derek offers, trying not to get angry. 

He pats Isaac’s shoulder, because he knows where this is coming from. His rookie confided in him pretty early on, after a discussion with Ennis had once again gotten way out of hand. Derek has tried to be better about yelling at the players, and one thing that has improved since Argent took over is that he takes care of Ennis’ punishment for being a fucking tool and getting himself ejected. Though it’s been at least three games since that last happened. 

“Always happy to fight Whittemore,” Boyd grins, already throwing off his pads. 

Boyd is actually a very chill guy. Like, honestly, Derek is more scared of Erica, if he’s being really honest. She would not fight fair, no not at all. She’s the one with the temper, and Boyd is calm and collected and sarcastic, only getting into fights when he absolutely has to. He’s mostly immune to the goading and chirping, and Derek is really happy to have such a level headed guy by his side. He’s recommending Boyd for an A next season for that very reason. 

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Stilinski is spitting fire, about ready to break shit. 

“Damn straight,” Lahey hollers, still trying to lighten the mood. 

Derek figures he’ll have to do some damage control with Stilinski after media. They just don’t have the time to get into it now, and Derek doesn’t want to be caught with his pants down yet again - some of these media types seem to thrive on getting him wearing nothing but a towel, and it’s awkward and really fucking uncomfortable. 

“Stilinski,” Derek tries to put an end to it. “We’ll discuss revenge later. He’ll get his.” 

He’s comfortable making that promise, because Stilinski may be a fucking asshole, but he’s part of Derek’s team. And even when Derek really fucking hates someone, he’ll still defend them as part of the pack. Not his Pack, but the pack. There’s a difference - Erica says. 

Stilinski is still grumbling when they hit the showers, and again when all the media vultures have left. It seems like there might be more at play here than mere rivalry. 

That’s when the locker room door opens, and a middle-aged man walks in. No one recognizes him, which makes Derek suspect that this too has to do with Stilinski. Who is still acting like a brat and throwing his shit around just a little too harshly - though not bad enough to disturb Lahey too much. At least he’s figured that out. 

“Are you really going to ignore your old man?” Stilinski senior - of course he is - speaks up. 

“Pops,” Stilinski barely even turns around. 

Derek is immediately pissed off at him, because if Derek’s parents were here right now, he’d leap at them. He still misses them every day, and here Stilinski won’t even look at his father when he obviously hasn’t been able to see him in months. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Derek is doomed to be the only adult here. “It’s very nice to meet you.” 

The other guys are pointedly not looking at what’s going on, but Derek is sure that they’re listening to everything that’s being said. They’re a bunch of nosy little fucks, and Derek hasn’t managed to train it out of them - and he probably never will. Whoever says that teenage girls gossip has never spent any significant amount of time in a hockey locker room. The second the game is over, the talk about every single player on the other team starts. 

Today everyone has been a bit reluctant, though. Because of Stilinski. 

“Hale,” Senior nods at him, barely. 

So, does rudeness run in the family? Stilinski’s Dad doesn’t look at Derek either, probably dismissing him right away. Because Stilinski used to play with actual legends, and now he plays with a bunch of losers who’ve never played a single game of playoff hockey. 

Yeah, he doubted any father would be all that impressed by the Wolves. 

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Stilinski tells his father, still not looking at him. 

That would be optimistic, because his shit is everywhere, and he is looking decidedly unkempt in comparison to his usual standards. Stilinski is the kind of pretty boy who has to make sure that he looks camera-ready at all times, probably because he’s used to the cameras being on him at all times. Derek wouldn’t know what that’s like. 

“Make it ten,” Boyd mumbles, just loud enough for Stilinski senior to hear. 

The man laughs. “It seems like they’re getting to know you well enough, Mieczyslaw.” 

Mieczyslaw. Right. That’s Stilinski’s name - Derek keeps forgetting about that. Because he just, doesn’t hear it. Ever. When Stilinski doesn’t go by his last name, he only ever goes by Stiles, which is pretty much up to par when it comes to the usual stupid hockey nicknames. Hockey players don’t exactly make use of first names very often. Sure, he knows that Lahey’s first name is Isaac, and that Boyd will punch anyone who dares to call him Vernon, but somehow he’d forgotten that other people have first names. Like Ennis - Derek wouldn’t have been able to come up with a first name for him if someone put a gun to his head. 

And Stilinski. Mieczyslaw. 

“Dad,” Stilinski whines, and Derek tries not to laugh too obviously. 

“Hale,” Stilinski senior has noticed, apparently. “If my son is the same kid I remember, he’ll need another fifteen to twenty minutes of pouting and throwing his pads around. How about you and I talk for a bit? Sometimes a man needs to make sure his kid isn’t lying to him.” 

Well, that’s just… ominous. Derek has no fucking clue what Stilinski has been telling his father about Derek and the rest of the Wolves. But he doubts it’s anything good. 

“Yes, sir,” Derek has been raised right, so he doesn’t dare refuse. 

There is some laughter from the rest of their team as their captain so obviously defers to the random dude who just happened to father Stilinski. But they can fucking shove it, because Derek is a good judge of character, and this guy has both law enforcement and concerned father written all over him. Derek isn’t making an enemy out of him. 

Contrary to what people say about him, he’s more than just a pretty face. 

“Alright Hale, give it to me straight,” Stilinski senior comes out with it the second the door to the locker room closes behind them. “How much of a brat has the kid been?” 

It is probably time to come up with a reasonably diplomatic version of the truth - because Derek is pretty damn sure that no father would want to hear about everything Stilinski has been up to over the past few months. Especially not in detail. 

“He has been having some trouble adjusting,” Derek is trying to be tactful here. 

“I’m sure that’s an understatement,” Senior laughs without any humor. “Look, I love the kid, more than anything. But he’s been acting… He’s had a very tough time of it, especially lately, which means that I’m sure he’s acting out and being a pain on and off the ice.” 

Stilinski’s father certainly is not wrong about that. But that’s not what Derek wants to talk about, that’s not what the man needs to hear. Because if he tries to give Stilinski a big speech after tonight’s game, it’s just going to get worse. Laying into Stilinski after a game like this had never gotten Derek anywhere, and he’s pretty sure it’ll be the same for his father. 

“It’s gotten a lot better,” Derek tries to focus on the positive. 

“Yes, that was a nice game against the Ducks, son,” Stilinski Senior is so damn parental. 

It’s nice, even though it hurts, because Derek’s parents aren’t here to support him. And they never will be again - because all he has is Peter. Fucking Peter. Shit, Stilinski should be lucky he still has a Dad, one who’s willing to come to his games and get to know his teammates. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Derek has to be polite - it helps choke back the tears. 

“Call me John,” Senior - John - is not letting things go. “Look, I appreciate you trying to defend my son. You’re a good kid. But I know him better than anyone, so I know better than anyone how bad the pouting and the tantrums are. He’s always been a dramatic little shit.” 

Somehow Derek is not surprised to hear that - at all. 

“He’s an incredibly talented player,” Derek starts, because even though he can’t fucking stand Stilinski a good part of the time, he still has to admit that. “He’s better than most of us combined, and he knows it. I get that this is a downgrade for him, and that he could skate circles around us without even getting tired. But if he just lets himself be part of the team…” 

Even now that they manage to work together pretty well - at least most of the time, because tonight was certainly a bit of an exception the further they got into the game. Stilinski let himself get riled up by assholes like Whittemore, trying stupid tricks and trying to show off. And yes, Stilinski’s a lot better than Whittemore - when he’s acting like he’s part of the time. 

He barely manages to do that on the ice, let alone off it. 

“He’s always been the best,” John Stilinski feels the need to state the obvious. 

Derek has no idea what that’s like. He’s had to work twice as hard as everyone else - he lacks some of the natural skill Stilinski has, and he’s been fighting the nepotism allegations for most of his career. That and the way he went off the rails when his family died, throwing himself into hockey too hard and being unable to come out, even now. He has nothing but hockey, and he’s trying to make his piece with that, even if he’s never going to be more than slightly below average, even within his own team. 

At least he’s not the worst player. At least there’s that much. 

“Do you know how cruel kids can be when they figure that out?” John continues, and Derek is starting to put some pieces together. “All of these kids wanted to make it to the show, they all wanted to go first, or at least go in the first round. And Stiles has always been an obstacle to that for them. So they tripped him and they fucked with his equipment, and they tried a million different ways to make him fuck up. They were idiots, because it just made the kid more determined to prove them all wrong, to show he was the best after all.” 

Maybe Stilinski is more of a Crosby than a Seguin, or maybe a bit of both. 

But bullying has always been a thing in Juniors - some of them get torn apart more than others, but the competitiveness has always been an excuse to be cruel. And if you complain, you’re just not tough enough to make it to the show. So you put your head down and you keep going, and you hope that one day you’ll… prove them wrong.  _ Oh _ .

“Getting picked first was a dream,” Stilinski senior is almost smiling as he says it. “And then winning the Cup in his Rookie year, and the Calder. The kid was on top of the world. Thought he was finally there - made it to the show, playing with people on his level and still excelling. He hoped he’d make some actual friends. Not just the one kid he met in the sandbox who he’s stuck with since, because of sheer stubborn strength of will.” 

The higher they are, the deeper they fall - Derek knows what’s coming next. An isolated player, unhappy and not producing, lashing out at everyone who even tries to make him play by the rules. A player like that? Is bound to get traded. And soon. 

“But that didn’t happen,” Derek is getting closer to the complete puzzle. 

“The pressure to repeat was enormous,” John murmurs. “All on him, because he’s The Spark. The one to save them all. It is a team sport, but it was all on him. I suddenly understood what that McDavid kid must have felt like, or that Seguin boy.” 

Every few years, some kid comes along, someone who is the next big thing, and usually ends up on a team that is hoping he’ll be their savior. Sometimes it happens, but usually it leaves quality players stuck on teams that don’t have a hope of winning anything, ever. And yes, that’s mostly a reflection on Davo’s crappy team, not on any of the others. 

“And then he got traded,” Derek knows what’s next. 

“To a team everyone considers second-rate,” John Stilinski does not mince words. “The kid calls me up, screaming and crying that his career is over. That he’ll never win a Cup again. That he thinks that Whittemore asshole was right about him after all. That he’s just gotten lucky.” 

Fucking Jackson. 

There is a lot that Derek can say about fucking Whittemore - about how he’s not half the player that Stilinski is - but as much as the asshole might disagree, not everything revolves around Jackson Whittemore. So Derek is going to make sure that this conversation leaves Whittemore where he’s supposed to be - far away from all of this. 

“He can make a difference here,” Derek still really believes that. “He snarks at Lahey, and Lahey throws it right back at him, but they work. They find each other.” 

He’s been seeing it more and more lately - heck, if Stilinski had come to the Wolves earlier in the season, they might have been fighting for playoff hockey at this point. And that’s huge, because that hasn’t happened in ages - and while one person can’t carry an entire hockey team, one person can be the spark (pun not intended) that lights a fire in the rest of his team that brings out the very best in their play. Lahey has never been better (yes, he’s basically only a rookie, but it still applies), and it isn’t like Derek had ever scored a hattrick before this season.

He could not have done that without Stiles - without Stilinski. 

“And you, son?” John Stilinski looks at Derek pointedly. “I can’t tell you I knew a lot about your play before Stiles was traded, but I’ve done my research. Somehow you’ve managed to develop a sixth sense for exactly where my kid will be before he even knows he’s going there. Stiles has never managed an impulse he didn’t like - but you still get the puck to him every time. You’re good, Hale. A lot better than people think you are.” 

No, that is not something that Derek is able to deal with, not at all. He cannot even look at John Stilinski right now, because of how sincere the man sounds when he is complimenting Derek’s play. This shit just does not happen to him, because he’s nothing special. Derek knows it’s just hard work and luck that got him into the NHL, that got him a C on his chest. 

“That’s all Stilinski - I mean Stiles,” Derek ducks his head. 

“Are you guys still talking about me?” The man of the hour joins them, having gathered all of his shit within a reasonable amount of time for once. “I know I’m the best, but this is getting ridiculous. I don’t actually need my head to get all bloated like Jackson’s.” 

Stilinski slings an arm over Derek’s shoulder for some reason, and Derek pretends that it’s normal for him to do that outside of practice or a celly. Basically, Stilinski doesn’t usually pull this shit when he’s not on the ice - and especially not with Derek, especially not after a painful loss. He’s a temper tantrum kind of guy, someone who likes to pout and yell and then put on his media face and get the fuck away from the rest of the team. 

Stiles Stilinski does not bond. 

“Fuck Whittemore,” Derek feels like this bears repeating, though. 

“I may be bi, but I have standards,” Stilinski grins at him, like a total asshole. 

John Stilinski groans, loudly, because he’s probably used to this. Derek’s getting used to it, and at some point he’ll actually be able to be just as ridiculous in return. Not yet, though. 

This time, it takes him until he reaches his car to realize that he probably should have said something snarky in return - to improve team bonding. It takes him even longer to realize that Stilinski’s gangly arm has been slung over his shoulder the whole time. 

He doesn’t shrug it off. 

* * *

They don’t make the playoffs, which is a surprise to no one at all. They get closer than they’ve gotten in years, but they don’t get close enough for it to really matter. 

Still, Derek is not bitter at locker cleanout - for once. He feels like this is a good start, this is something they can build on, if not too much changes. Maybe they’ll get a few more decent rookies in, and maybe some of the vets will leave or retire, but he hopes that the core of his team will stay the same. He hopes Stilinski won’t use the off-season to run to some other team and beg them to get him the hell away from these losers. 

At the first practice, at training camp, Derek is kind of surprised to find that Stilinski is not only still here, but he’s also treating Derek like they’re actual friends, continuing his late season habit of wrapping his arm around Derek whenever they stand next to each other. He doesn’t remark on it, and neither does Derek, but he’s seen the looks that Boyd and Lahey give them. Derek just refuses to acknowledge them. He can do that, he’s the Captain. 

The new rookies are - shit, had Derek ever really been that young? There is definitely potential there, but they all seem to have a rather tragic lack of maturity when it comes to being able to take care of themselves. Dunbar is probably the most immature of them all - Hewitt and Bryant are just kids who have never had to look after themselves. 

They are also dating, which Derek only finds out about when he catches them in a random hallway about three days into camp. Fucking teenagers. He calls them out on at least keeping it off the ice and somewhat private, and they apparently seem relieved that he isn’t actively a dick about two of his rookies being in a relationship. Derek tries not to actively be a dick about most anything, but he does complain to Danvers (his most mature A) about teenagers having no discretion and not wanting to be a relationship counselor. 

Danvers is a bit of a patronizing prick about his response, calling Derek out on the lack of romance in his own life, but he agrees to take in Dunbar for the foreseeable future - if the kid doesn’t get sent down to the AHL. 

Stilinski is a fucking god-send when it comes to the kids - which is probably the biggest surprise of the season so far. Here’s this kid, just twenty years old himself, acting like he’s fucking Yoda for a bunch of fresh-faced brats. Derek has never felt his twenty-four, almost twenty-five years of age this keenly, as grateful as he is to Stilinski for mostly managing to keep them in line. 

Mostly, he says, because while the children keep Stilinski too busy to maintain the revolving door of puck-bunnies, it does mean that sometimes he has to let himself into Stilinski’s place at like two AM because those morons are still playing stupid video games and they have completely forgotten that they have practice in the morning. 

“A fresh start,” Stilinski hip-checks him as they prepare for their first preseason game. 

“This doesn’t even count,” Derek argues, just for the sake of arguing. 

It’s damn stupid, is what it is, arguing with Stilinski just because he likes it when Stilinski turns to him, those golden eyes of his twinkling with mischief as he gets ready to deliver a supposedly vicious putdown. It is rarely as vicious as he likes to think it is, and over the past few weeks of practice, it’s started to sound more and more fond. 

Derek hasn’t pointed that out to Stilinski. 

“Let the cubs have their fun,” Stilinski is thrilled that the use of his stupid nickname for the rookies has caught on. “Let them cut their fangs on some of the big guys without it having major wolfy consequences right away. Hockey can be fun, Der. Don’t forget that.” 

Maybe it’s not just the rookies who’ve gotten a new nickname, courtesy of Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski. Derek’s got about a dozen of them now, with Stilinski calling him anything but his last name. Instead he gets a couple variations on his role as Captain, the customary “dude” or “big guy” and other nicknames that wouldn’t be out of place in a frat house - and since a couple days ago: “Der”. That’s the one that gets to him most. 

Still, he hasn’t exactly stopped Stilinski. He doesn’t think he would if he could. 

“How dare they have fun,” Derek puts on his most serious face. 

“I hope  _ you _ have fun,” Stilinski pats his shoulder before getting up to check on the rookies yet again. “Alright, cubs, listen to your older brother. Sort of. You get my drift.” 

Derek really hopes none of them puke - Whittemore did, two (or three?) years ago, and the then-captain had been forced to mother him. Derek was not prepared to handle puking rookies - maybe he could make Stilinski take care of his cubs? 

His cubs. Fuck, that stupid nickname really was catching on. 

* * *

Derek has just hung up on Benny when he hears the knock on his door. His friend had been in a good mood, still relatively fresh off their Stanley Cup win (and honestly, who would have expected the Stars to go there, ever?). Derek had been worried, because things are still going suspiciously well, and he knows something has to give. 

He is no Crosby, doesn’t have extensive, superstitious pre-game rituals - but he will do anything he can to keep this hot streak going. 

“Yo, Der, it’s me,” he finally hears from behind the door. “Let me in will you.” 

Of course it’s Stilinski, of course it’s  _ Stiles _ \- he’s been over most days lately. Apparently the cubs are doing okay without him, which leaves him with a mild version of empty nest syndrome that Derek mocks relentlessly. The kid is just twenty himself, he has no fucking clue what he’s doing half the time - but he really does look after the rookies. And it’s a job he’s good at, probably because his own rookie year was so damn turbulent and filled with ramped-up expectations of an entire franchise. No one wants to do that to these kids. 

“You have a key, dumbass,” Derek opens the door for his dumbass neighbor. 

Stilinski looks… less than thrilled. Which is surprising, because they’re doing well - they beat the Blackhawks two days ago and Derek is going to enjoy the look on Kane’s face for the foreseeable future. Because he’s petty like that - because for once they’ve come out on top, and he isn’t naive enough to think that’ll be happening a lot. Toews has already sworn his revenge - and Derek would be stupid not to believe him. Jonathan Toews is intense. He does not lie. 

“It’s in my apartment,” Stilinski easily maneuvers around Derek. “I’m not ready to go in there right now. Can I just crash here tonight? I… I need to not be home alone right now.” 

That is… worrying, really worrying. But it’s also good, because for once Stilinski is coming to him with this shit instead of banging through his issues with a random man or woman, or going into what Derek calls brat-mode, where he goes back to being the guy who walked into optional skate and sassed Deaton just because he felt like it. 

This is, supposedly, progress. 

“You’re always welcome here,” Derek says, very carefully. 

“Jesus, that’s your Captain voice,” Stilinski rolls his eyes at him in a way that makes Derek worry about him even more. “Did you take a course in that? Finding your voice as a captain? With Crosby and Benn and Toews and Giroux and McJesus and all of the other Canadians? Were you the only American? Are you having trouble not saying eh?” 

When Stilinski starts rambling, it’s usually because there is something that he is desperately trying to avoid talking about. Derek is pretty damn sure that it has everything to do with his reason for not wanting to be alone tonight, but he’s not dumb enough to actually ask. He’d like for his center to keep him in one piece, thanks. 

“Eh,” Derek repeats, because he knows Stilinski will laugh. 

“I can’t believe people think you have no sense of humor,” Stilinski chuckles, and then throws himself onto Derek’s couch, leaving very little space for Derek to actually sit. “People call you a robot, did you know that? They clearly have no idea about your weapons of sass destruction - yes, I’m talking about your brows. You speak volumes with those.” 

Laura always used to say that Derek would have been able to manage just fine without talking, because his brows were worth a thousand words and then some. Usually she meant it as an insult, but once she confessed that she liked it, because it meant that she was always able to tell how he was feeling. She always knew how to read him so well, and after… Derek never expected anyone else to achieve her level of fluency. 

But Stilinski - Stiles - somehow he just understands. He’s able to have full conversations with Derek without Derek ever having to say a thing. He knows how Derek moves, knows exactly where Derek will put the puck, or where Derek wants it. Somehow it’s translating to their off-ice time together as well. It’s nice - almost comforting. 

“My programmers will be very happy to hear that,” Derek’s learned to be quick about his remarks to Stilinski. “Meep, morp.” 

That makes Stilinski laugh - loudly, because there is nothing subtle about this asshole - until he abruptly stills, as if he’s just realized that he’s not allowed to be happy for some reason. And oh, Derek knows that face, he knows that look, he knows that feeling all too well. 

So he grabs his phone from the coffee table and surreptitiously checks his messages. And there it is, from just ten minutes ago. John Stilinski has sent him a message, asking him if he’s talked to Stiles yet, and if he’d let him know if he had seen him. 

“What did Dad say to you?” Stilinski is far too clever not to notice. 

“He wants to know if I’ve talked to you,” Derek isn’t going to lie to his liney and friend. “Wants me to text him when and if I see you. Guess he’s worried for some reason.” 

Subtle Derek is not - which is something Stiles knows about him. So Stilinski lets him get away with his awkward attempts at prying, and his halting attempts at being comforting. Shit, he’s going to have to be comforting - he really sucks at that. 

Derek Hale is not the nurturing type. Why did they make him Captain again? 

“It’s been a year since Mom died,” Stilinski is hiding his face - which means that there are probably tears he doesn’t want Derek to know about. “We had a stupid fight about me not being around for it this year. It’s not like I can do anything about that, and Dad knows that. But he refuses to come out here for it. Because he still lives in their old house, and… I’m sorry, I don’t need to unload this shit on you. I just need to not be alone. If I’m alone I’ll do something stupid - and Mom would really fucking hate that.” 

A year ago, Stilinski was… Well, that certainly explained a lot. That and the stories John Stilinski has shared with him, should have been plenty of reason for the Sparks to give Stilinski some leeway at a difficult time like this. Still, he wonders why no news outlets had picked up the story, when they’d so quickly taken up their pens to dismiss and deride Stilinski’s coping habits. 

How many people had been paid off to keep this close to the vest? When it honestly should have just humanized Stilinski to the masses, a lost teenage boy who’d been on top of the world until everything came crashing down from under him. Derek knows far too much about what that’s like, and he wonders if that is why Stilinski is currently holed up at his house instead of spending time with Lahey, or hassling Boyd and Erica. 

Still, no matter the reason and his apparent lack of a better option, Stilinski has opened up to him about something serious, something vulnerable. 

What’s the saying, a truth for a truth? 

“It’s my fault my family is dead,” Derek finds himself saying, and he cannot take it back. 

If this was just a thing he’d said to shut Stilinski the fuck up, it would have worked. Sadly, he said it because he’s an idiot who is trying to open up to someone. And he doesn’t know how to do that - he’s not sure if he ever did, because the only people he’d ever opened up to were his parents and sisters, and that was rarely any kind of voluntary on Derek’s side. That mostly involved Laura prying until she’d gotten what she wanted from him - because she could tell by the set of his brows that there was something wrong with him. She was not going to stop annoying him until he told her what it was. 

It always worked. It still leaves him on an odd footing now, though, because he’s never really learned how to talk to people when it isn’t about hockey. 

“What the fuck!” Stiles’ eyes are wide and disbelieving. “I didn’t say any of this so you’d have to try and one-up me, but I’m glad your competitiveness has risen to the top again. Jesus, Der-Bear, you’re one morbid fucker. And that martyr complex is going to kill you one day.” 

Yep, he has definitely fucked that up, like, right away. Just one sentence, and he’s ruined it all - if there is actually a friendship to ruin. There have been comments about Stilinski being good at sticking his foot in his mouth, but Derek has just managed to outdo him without even trying. Because he doesn’t have to try to say something stupid, so maybe that’s why he usually chooses not to say anything at all. Peter is right, he should stick to what he’s good at. 

(It’s just that outside of hockey, maybe, if that, Derek isn’t sure what that is.)

“I wasn’t trying to be competitive,” Derek knows he sounds sulky, but he doesn’t know how to make himself sound… soft. “I was trying to… relate? I’m not good at this. It’s why I have Danvers as my A. He handles all of the emotional stuff. You’re probably right about me being a hockey robot. I’m just not… I don’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Shit, he’s a terrible captain. He’s a terrible friend - if Stilinski even is his friend. Derek thinks maybe he is, or maybe he’s trying to be. It’s different from Lahey and Boyd, because they were his rookies, and he’s been mentoring them (in anything hockey and NHL-related, really, because they’ve got their shit together and know better than to ask him about life stuff). Sure, Stilinski was a kid when they met, but he was also… An equal? Stilinski is the better player, and he’s good at talking to people when he bothers to give a fuck. Derek’s thought of him as a kid plenty at first, because of the temper tantrums and the bratty behavior… But he’s rejected any mentoring, and now he’s actively helping Derek get his shit together. 

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him, and Derek nods in agreement. “I can’t believe you’re my favorite, I really can’t. You’re the worst, and I reserve the right to call you a robot to your face until you win me a Stanley Cup. Which is going to take you forever, so clearly I get to call you a robot for years. Years, Der-Bear. Just us, though, not in front of the rest of the morons, and none of those idiots will be allowed to make fun of you. That’s just best friend privileges.”

Derek is very aware that he’s an idiot, one who doesn’t really have friends because he’s always been better at hockey than he is at people (shit, maybe’s more like Crosby than he’s always thought, other than his complete lack of the other’s natural talent). Usually though, his idiocy leads to people backing away and not trying again, but apparently Stilinski has a higher threshold for embarrassment - because instead of running the fuck away from Derek, he’s promoting him into the best friend role. Derek would have sworn there was someone else cast in that role already - Scotty? The childhood friend John Stilinski mentioned. 

“Did we just become best friends?” Derek asks, managing to fit a reference in, even with his brain still recovering from Stilinski at full speed. 

“First of all, all the points,” Stilinski grins at him and pulls Derek down on the couch with him. “Second, come here, dumbass. I’m going to tell you all about how fucking wrong you are about where the blame lies for your family. And you’re not allowed to disagree - also, maybe text my Dad if he’s worried enough to call in the cavalry. Yes that’s you.”

Stilinski has been getting more and more… handsy of late, and Derek is trying so hard not to just melt into it because it’s nice to be touched off the ice. Right, that’s another embarrassing thing he is never going to tell Stiles about. He is just going to quietly and carefully not object to any of it - Stilinski can get exactly as close as he wants to. Derek is not saying no, and maybe someday he’ll actually get the courage to touch Stilinski in return. 

He grabs his phone before leaning back into Stilinski’s hold, fiddling around with it while trying to find the right words to say to a worried father. 

“Does he know I’m an idiot?” Derek has to ask. 

“He’s used to me,” Stilinski quips, attempting to put Derek in a headlock. “I’m sure he’ll manage to adjust. Somehow. He’ll be calling you son next.”

He already has, the first time they met. But this is not the time to get into that discussion. 

To Unknown Number:  _ I’ve got him. I’ll try not to fuck it up.  _

From John Stilinski:  _ Thank you son. _

* * *

The morning after the ensuing Star Wars marathon (Stilinski’s comfort movies of choice), Derek wakes up with a crick in his neck, and a weight on top of him that is a lot heavier than his usual blankets. He’d suspect a pet if he had any, but…

Stilinski. Stiles. Stiles is on top of him. All over him. 

“Fuck,” Derek tries to curse quietly. 

He manages well enough that Stilinski doesn’t wake up, instead burrowing in closer to Derek like the goddamn octopus he appears to be. He’s somehow managed to wrap himself around Derek almost completely, clinging to Derek like he’s a favorite toy that the idiot cannot seem to let go of. And it’s not that Derek particularly wants him to let go, it’s just that things will get really fucking awkward if Stilinski keeps fucking wiggling like that. 

“Jesus,” Derek’s voice almost cracks on the next wiggle. 

If Stilinski keeps moving like that, he’s going to wake up to quite a surprise. And apparently he is going to wake up, because the wiggling is getting more purposeful by the second. Derek just barely manages to at least move his groin away from Stilinski’s - because he can handle the wiggling pretty much anywhere but there. 

“Is it morning?” Stilinski’s face is hidden, pressed into Derek’s neck. “Too early. And why is my pillow talking back to me? I don’t remember buying a talking pillow. I think I would remember that, no matter how fucked up I wanted to get last night. I don’t feel hungover.”

So clearly Stilinski’s habit of saying just about everything he thinks is a 24/7 thing - he doesn’t need to wake up slowly like most normal humans do. Or at least, his mouth does not, because Stilinski’s body still seems to be completely asleep - and still on top of Derek, as if he’s actually comfortable like this. Which honestly… Derek really doubts that. 

Still, it means he has a chance to fuck with Stilinski, which is all kinds of fun. 

“This is your pillow speaking,” Derek says in his most robotic tone of voice, before going back to normal for the second half of his message. “Wake the fuck up, Stilinski. We’re playing Babe Landeskog tonight. You don’t wanna miss that.”

It’s a terrible nickname, he knows that much - even though Landeskog himself just tends to gloat about it - but he knows that Stiles will definitely get a kick out of it. And who knows, maybe it will actually help him wake the fuck up already, so that Derek can get some much needed distance between the two of them. Because apart from the crick in his neck, he was stupidly comfortable, and he’s having a lot of stupid feelings about that. 

“I could have sworn I heard you say  _ Babe _ Landeskog,” Stilinski mutters, sounding confused now. “Now you are not wrong about that, but I think it’s a bit - fuck, Derek?”

And that is the very moment that Stilinski realizes who he’s been cuddling. His head lifts, looking at Derek from too small a distance. Derek can pretty much count the freckles, and see how ridiculously long Stilinski’s eyelashes are - he can even see the different shades of gold in his new best friend’s eyes. And that is just… a lot to deal with in the morning. 

“I personally prefer Sharpy, but if Landeskog does it for you,” Derek tries to be casual. 

“Patrick Sharp doesn’t count,” Stiles might be blushing a little, but he continues to act cool, even mostly on top of Derek. “That has to be some kind of supernatural hotness magic. No hockey player is supposed to be that ridiculously attractive. I’m pretty sure he sold his soul for the multiple Stanley Cups and the skill to avoid any injuries marring that ridiculous face of his. And I don’t even blame him, because damn. Wait, what were we talking about?”

Well, Stiles is not wrong about that, even though Patrick Sharp’s attractiveness is not really the most important topic that they need to discuss at this moment. Derek doesn’t particularly want to talk about waking up with Stiles wrapped around him - because that can only end in weirdness and disappointment, and Derek’s had more than enough of that in his life. 

“I can’t believe you’re like this all the time,” Derek can barely manage to sound annoyed by it. 

“Believe it, baby,” Stiles is triumphant, finally untangling himself from Derek. “I wake up like this - flawless. Well, okay, I’m no Beyonce, but I do alright. Even when sleeping on the couch. Sorry about my clingy tendencies, by the way. I haven’t really shared a bed with anyone in ages, because this is a super awkward thing to do to a one night stand. But I think a hockey robot like you can handle it, right? Or are you strictly anti-cuddles?” 

Stilinski sits up awkwardly, pretty much straddling Derek in the process. He’s acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary, but when Derek thinks back on having a best friend - he thinks he had one once - he cannot remember his sleepovers ending like this. Ever. 

“I’m fine,” Derek manages to say that much. 

“Good,” Stilinski stops moving again, happily seated on top of Derek. “Because I’m going to need you tonight. You always know just how I want it, and I’m going hard tonight.” 

Is he doing this on purpose? Sitting on top of Derek and spouting innuendos at almost the speed of light, like Stiles doesn’t have a clue about what he’s doing to Derek with his words and his mouth and his body and that goddamn sparkle in his eyes.

“Okay, I just heard it,” Stilinski corrects himself before Derek can call him out. “Do you think I can make the guys freak out by doing it in front of them? Just, you know, casually mentioning that we slept together last night, and then doing my best Bambi impression while saying some raunchy shit? Dunbar might actually die of second hand embarrassment.” 

While Derek absolutely applauds any kind of silly prank played on the rookies (and the ones the rookies attempt to play on Stiles in return) - it’s the best way of building a team that they’ve managed to find so far - this is not the kind of thing that needs to get out. Not just because he doesn’t want to be thought of as the captain sleeping with his star player - because that would be bad enough - but because he’s starting to figure out he’d rather this happen for real. Instead of as just another one of Stilinski’s terrible excuses for jokes. 

“We didn’t sleep together,” Derek has to correct that - he  _ has _ to. 

“We did though,” Stilinski is going to be pedantic about this, Derek is sure of it. “Not in the traditional fucking until you pass out sense, but we still slept together. Though honestly, Der, if we’re going to have a repeat performance of this, I demand we at least make it to the bed. Oh wow. We didn’t even make it to the bed - I can only imagine the look on the cubs’ faces.” 

Yes, that would be hilarious - if the jokes were about anyone but him. Sure, it might finally make people stop referring to him as a robot. Or it might make the rookies ask Stiles stupid questions about if he’s seen Derek’s charging pod, or something along those lines. 

They would. And Isaac would be the worst of them all. 

“Stiles,” Derek sighs, trying to make it stop. 

“Is that a no on the repeat performance?” Stilinski asks like that’s actually an option. 

Derek wishes it were, but he knows better than that. Stilinski - Stiles - just needed someone to lean on last night, on the most difficult day of his year. At least he managed to get something right there, at least he didn’t completely fuck up the friendship right away. But they are not the kind of friends who sleep together on the regular. That would be ridiculous. 

Except Stiles does make the jokes about sleeping with Derek in front of the team. So when Stiles scores his first hat trick of the season in the game against the Avalanche, Isaac is just the first idiot to tell Stiles that the change in his pre-game ritual clearly did him some good.

Apparently Stiles is just superstitious enough to believe it. 

* * *

After about six weeks of Stiles sleeping with Derek before every single game, whether it’s a home game or one of their many games on the road, Derek is actually looking forward to the holidays. And then bye week, so he’ll finally get some time to himself to figure out his increasingly confusing feelings for Stiles. Stilinski. For Stilinski. 

Only they hardly even have a break for Christmas, and when Stilinski somehow finds out that Derek’s birthday is on Christmas Day, he has to make sure that Derek doesn’t get a second alone over the holidays, because…

“No one should be alone on Christmas,” Stiles has to repeat the argument. “And no one should be alone on their birthday. Two birds with one stone. I don’t actually care if we’re staying at mine or at yours, but we’re totally staying together. You are not getting rid of me, no sir. I’ve already bought your Christmas present and your birthday present, and since we have a game on the 27th anyway… There’s no point in me going home, especially with my Dad working.”

Well, if Stiles is going to be alone anyway. Just because Derek does better when he’s alone, doesn’t mean he likes the idea of Stiles spending the holidays all by himself, just hanging around in his apartment, missing his mother and father. Derek knows how much worse it gets around the holidays, and he doesn’t want Christmas to suck for Stiles. 

But that doesn’t mean he can handle being with Stiles all the time. 

“Come on,” Stiles is just not letting this go. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with me and watch all the Harry Potter movies instead of being forced to play nice with Peter?” 

Holidays with Peter have been awkward for the past… decade? Has it really been that long? Nine years ago, he celebrated his first birthday (and his first Christmas) without his family, and things have not gotten any better between him and Peter since. 

“I can see you cringing, Der-Bear,” Stiles announces, throwing himself at Derek in what is probably supposed to become some kind of piggyback ride. “Come on bestie, you can’t be sick of me already. Not enough to force me to spend Christmas all by myself in a strange city, with no friends or family. Except for my favorite robot.” 

Wow, Stiles is really trying to pull the pity card here, and Derek is more than a little embarrassed to say that it is absolutely working. He is just that easy for Stiles. Or just that pathetic. 

“Do you have more than one?” Derek has to ask. 

“Tons,” Stilinski is grinning at him, because he knows he’s won. “But you’re my favorite.” 

Derek could challenge him to actually name some of said robots, but he doesn’t actually want to argue about this. He doesn’t want Stilinski to stay with him over the holidays as some kind of pity thing, but he likes spending time with Stiles, even when he’s doing his octopus impression or leaving cheesy, greasy fingerprints on most of Derek’s furniture. Even when he’s making fun of Derek, or beating him at every video game ever, or when he’s being a brat. 

He just likes Stiles, likes him way too much really. 

“I suppose I’m honored,” Derek tries really hard not to sound pleased. 

“Yeah you are,” Stiles is too smug about it. 

So Derek doesn’t give in to the piggyback ride, instead throwing Stiles onto the couch - take that, superior strength - and sitting on him. Because apparently that is platonically acceptable, seeing as Stiles has attempted to do it to him no less than three times this week. Derek might actually succeed, though, and that is going to annoy Stiles in the best way. He gets all determined and huffy, and he will absolutely fight dirty to try and win. 

Shit, maybe this is actually a terrible idea. 

“Fuck, you’re strong,” Stiles tries to buck Derek off. 

Really, Derek is just trying not to die, because Stiles is a wild thing and he is thrusting his hips and touching Derek to try and find some non-existent weak spot. Derek is not ticklish - unlike Stiles, whose ribs are apparently a danger zone, any touch to them making him flail and lash out with his seriously pointy elbows. Derek is not affected like that, but if Stiles keeps moving like that, he is going to have to run away or take drastic action. 

“Okay, uncle,” Stiles sighs, seemingly giving up. 

Derek is… relieved?

So when he pushes up, no longer pinning Stiles with all of his body weight, he is surprised but not disappointed to suddenly find himself being pinned by his teammate. 

“Oh,” Derek breathes, because he’s having trouble forming words. 

“Yes,” Stiles’ grin is less smug than he expected. “I’ve got skills too. I’ve been working out, I’ve been making the trainers proud. I might have to tell them that I got the better of you. Not that they’ll believe me. But I like talking about being on top of you.” 

Wow, even for Stilinski that’s taking it a bit far. And for Derek, this is just more torture that he cannot do anything about, because he barely has time alone these days, and he hasn’t hooked up in like a year - and Stiles is ridiculous and tempting and pinning him while being terrible at flirting. If that’s even supposed to be flirting. It might just be wishful thinking. 

“I can vouch for you if you need me to,” Derek finds himself sounding almost breathless. 

“They’d never believe you,” Stiles smiles, hand on Derek’s chest to seemingly steady himself. “I may be a secret badass, but everyone knows we’re besties and you have a soft spot for me the size of Chara. And that’s one big dude, Der.” 

Once again, Stilinski is not wrong, and Derek cannot find it in himself to argue the point. So he lets himself relax under Stiles’ weight, and tries not to worry that Stiles is only humoring his stupid feelings. Because Stiles would be more obvious about it if he’d figured it out - and the rejection would be immediate and very, very clear. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek finally says, a smile on his face. 

They lose their last game before Christmas. Stiles still doesn’t stop sleeping in Derek’s bed - in fact, he’s there more than ever, even on nights when they don’t have a game to look forward to. 

In fact, Stiles doesn’t spend a single night in his apartment until bye week. 

* * *

Slowly but surely, Derek actually lets himself hope. Sure, they drop some games, even some that they could have and should have won, but their record is better than it’s been in ages. If they keep at it like this for the next few games, they might actually manage to get themselves in a decent position for playoff hockey. 

Actually, they’d really have to fuck up for them to  _ not _ get to that point. Somehow, by some kind of miracle (Stiles claims it’s his sleeping with Derek that’s bringing all the luck to the yard - his exact words) they are playing good hockey. Great hockey even - Stiles has managed three hat tricks this season, and Lahey’s gotten his first one ever just a week ago. Boyd’s impenetrable, and wearing his A with pride. Derek’s almost gotten more points this season than he’s gotten in the past three combined - and if they keep going like this, he will absolutely get there. 

He is terrified of fucking it up with his complete and utter mediocrity, but so far he manages to have everyone fooled. Even Stilinski. Especially him. 

The media is running with the many, many quotes Stiles has given them about Derek, about how he’s an incredible winger with real power, someone who just needed the right center and the right chemistry to make him play to his full potential. Someone who leads the team by example, who’s made the rookies live up to their potential. 

Derek doesn’t recognize himself in the image Stilinski’s painted of that guy, but he doesn’t dare tell him he’s lying. Because Stilinski actually believes it, wholeheartedly. 

They finally lock down the playoff spot a couple games before the end of the season, and Derek keeps pinching himself. Because how else is he supposed to prove to himself that he isn’t dreaming all of this up? He counts his fingers (that shouldn’t work in a dream), and he focuses on reading (apparently you can’t read in a dream), and he panics. 

“I’m going to ruin it,” he whispers in the darkness of his bedroom that night. 

Stilinski’s breaths have been deep and steady for a few minutes now - which means that he’s asleep, because he’s never been able to shut the fuck up unless he absolutely has to. That means that it’s safe for Derek to voice his actual thoughts now. 

“I’m going to fail them all,” his own breath is less than steady. 

Is this what a panic attack feels like? Breath stuck in his chest, unable to get enough air, feeling light headed - and still all he can think about is how terrible he is and how he’s going to let everyone down and he is never going to get Stiles his second Stanley Cup and maybe he should just let Stiles go back to a team that is worthy of him and let himself slip back into barely mediocrity. Because that’s what he is, barely mediocre. 

And he’s a terrible captain, relying on Danvers to get all of the players through any emotional issues, when Danvers is on the verge of retirement, and soon it’ll be his job to fix issues that he doesn’t know how to fix. He can’t keep letting others save his worthless ass. 

“Your ass is amazing,” Stiles manages to interrupt him. 

And has he been saying all of that out loud? 

“You’re having a panic attack,” Stiles sits up, with his hand still on its customary spot on Derek’s chest. “I know all about that. So what we’re going to do, is we’re going to stick to our strengths. I am going to babble at you, and you are going to listen and give me sass brows until you get to a point where you can laugh at me again. I know that’s your favorite thing in the world.” 

The bedroom was dark, so Derek couldn’t see him as well as he wanted to, but the gentle pressure of Stiles’ hand helped ground him, somewhat. It was something else to focus on other than his raging thoughts, still telling him that they were going to fail because of him. 

“I can’t believe you think so badly of yourself,” Stiles starts talking again, and Derek almost doesn’t want to listen. “Well, no, okay, I believe it completely, because you’re exactly the kind of idiot who works so hard to make sure his team is okay, and then doesn’t have anything left for himself. Even when I was the biggest pain in your ass, you still kept trying, because you knew what I could do, and who I could be. You knew I could be better.” 

Is Stilinski actually complimenting him? He’s not having trouble with his hearing, he can hear exactly what his friend is saying - it’s the believing that he is actually saying what Derek thinks he’s saying that he’s having trouble with. Because why would Stiles feel that way? 

“You have no idea how good you are,” Stiles continues, passionate, vehement, and ready to tear down anyone in his way. “And I don’t just mean a good person. Which you are, and you should know that, but you’re so much more than that. You’re more than a good guy, more than just a gorgeous guy. You’re, like, the most attractive hockey player on this team, and Babe Landeskog has nothing on you. Sharpy, maybe, but you know how we feel about him.” 

Derek breathes out a shaky laugh, because he can always count on Stilinski to be completely ridiculous. The compliment about his looks doesn’t bother him like this, when it’s stuck smack dab in the middle of one of Stilinski’s usual ridiculous rants. When it seems sincere, and not just meant to mock or rattle him - when it’s coming from Stilinski. From Stiles, someone Derek likes far too much. Someone he wants to notice him in this way too, someone he wants to appreciate his looks as well as his stupid personality. It’s a long shot, but he wants it nonetheless. 

But he’s just going to fuck that up too. 

“I know,” Derek barely manages to say. 

“Hey, no talking,” Stilinski shushes him with the hand not still resting on Derek’s chest. “Not unless you’re giving me sass brows and laughing at me, which you’re clearly not doing. Your head is still making it worse, when you should be focused on breathing and the ridiculous sound of my voice telling me all about how awesome you are. I get that it sucks to hear that - not for most people, but it does for you. But I’m just going to keep going. Because fuck that.” 

Stilinski is fucking stubborn, and Derek kind of likes that about him now - it was an annoyance at first, but ever since Stilinski’s become an actual functioning part of the team, it’s a nice trait to have on their side. And for some reason, Stiles has already decided that he is going to be on Derek’s side for the foreseeable future. Derek hardly understands why. 

But maybe he can do something else than trying to understand Stiles. That was something beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Instead he could relish in having Stiles’ warm body right next to him, a warm hand pressed over his heart. 

“You’re really good at hockey, Der,” Stiles’ voice is softer now, sweeter even. “You’ve got great hands, and when you go what I’d like to call full wolf mode, nobody can throw you off the puck. You throw them off, and you’ll throw down for your team, and I would throw down for you if that wasn’t going to get me killed. But fuck, Der, you’re so good. People call me gifted, call me talented or whatever, and it pisses me the fuck off that they don’t do the same for you. Now don’t interrupt me with your fucking fifth round I’m not that good bullshit, because how high you get drafted doesn’t always equal to just how good you are. Clearly, because you… Derek…” 

Derek can barely catch his breath, and that isn’t just because of the panic attack anymore - that actually seems to be getting better, like he can breathe more easily with Stiles still trying to ground him. He’s actually having trouble catching his breath because the moonlight is shining into the bedroom, and Derek can finally see the way that Stilinski - Stiles - has been looking at him this whole time. And it’s… It’s more than Derek ever hoped for. 

“Your hockey is beautiful,” Stiles says it as if it’s the greatest compliment he knows how to give - and maybe it is. “Not just because it gets me hot. Even though it really, really does, and that’s a topic we can get into another time, because hitting on you when you’re having a panic attack is too much, even for me. I have standards Der. Especially when it comes to you.” 

That does the trick, finally lets Derek get himself back to normal - or whatever passes for normal with him. Stiles sounds hopeful, and Derek is pretty damn sure that it isn’t even wishful thinking this time - it sounds like this is just the start of something they’ve been working towards for over a year now. Something he didn’t know they were heading to until recently - he should have known that Stilinski had it all figured out ages ago. He’s faster than anyone. 

But Derek is catching up now, and he doesn’t mind letting Stiles know all about that. 

“Tell me about these standards,” Derek makes sure to quirk his brows, because he knows that’s what Stiles has been waiting for this whole time. “Just so I’m ready when you finally do decide to hit on me. At some point. Before I’m old and grey.” 

It’s stupid how much better Derek feels. The worries haven’t disappeared, but they’re pushed down by piles and piles of compliments and Stiles’ smile in the moonlight. Derek is going to make it to the morning without freaking out, and then he’s going to call his therapist and set up an extra appointment. He can handle this - because he’s not doing it alone. 

He’s got Stiles - at least, he really thinks he does. 

“You’d look really hot with grey hair,” Stiles grins, throwing himself at Derek. 

Just to hold him, just to fall asleep in each other’s arms, just to be together, hoping for the future and waiting for the right moment. It’ll come. Soon. 

* * *

Soon takes a few weeks longer than Derek had been expecting, but it’s not like he minds too much. Because he’s got hockey to worry about. 

They have actually made it to the playoffs (yes, he knew that before, but now it’s for real and it’s actually sinking in). The Wolves make it to the playoffs for the first time in over a decade. Derek is going to be playing playoff hockey in a matter of days. He’s known for a few weeks now, but the surreal feeling of it hasn’t yet gone away. 

If they didn’t have to fly out halfway across the country tomorrow night (for their first fucking playoffs game), he probably would be going out, just like a significant part of the team. They’re going to be drinking too much and partying a little too hard, and Derek really wants to chide them for it, but he also cannot blame them. Because they’re actually going to the fucking playoffs. He can’t even seem to think beyond that first game, but that’s fine for now. 

He can live in the moment. He can appreciate this major victory before worrying about what comes next - his therapist has helped him that much. And Stiles. Fuck, Stiles. 

“Playoffs baby,” Stiles catches his eye, a dopey grin on his face. 

Derek is pretty damn sure that he looks even sillier at this point, but he can’t really help himself anymore. He’s in his own apartment, and Boyd and Erica and Isaac have just left for their own plans. And Stiles is still here, like he always is. And yes they’ve been catching a lot of shit for how Stiles has basically moved in, but their friends are also happy for them, even though Erica’s been telling him to “tap that” for at least a month now. Maybe...

“Is this the right time?” Derek has to ask. 

“Shit, now?” Stiles responds with another question, wide-eyed and excited. “I mean, I’m all for it, but I thought I’d have more notice. I was going to do some actual wooing and shit, Der-Bear. Like, take you on a date all nice and public and cute. I thought you’d want to wait until the season was over. Only no, of course you don’t. Because if it doesn’t go our way, you’ll be in a shit mood and I’ll be even worse. So now. Right now. Because we’re happy.” 

Derek has mostly come to terms with the fact that he’s in love with a frat boy who still occasionally calls him dude, a dork who says things like “actual wooing and shit” without a shred of self-consciousness. Sometimes, like now, he rolls his eyes at the words coming out of Stiles’ pretty mouth, and he gives him shit but still lets him finish talking. 

And then he gives his answer. Finally. 

“Yes,” Derek says, because he is - because they are. 

“I like your hockey almost as much as I like everything else about you,” Stiles just looks at him, completely sure of what he’s saying. “Go on a date with me, maybe?” 

Okay, so maybe this is the actual answer. It’s not a surprise, because clearly Stiles already knows what he’s going to say - they’ve been on the same page about it since that night when Derek had that panic attack. But just because it’s not a surprise, doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate that they’re making a moment of it. Using actual words, no matter how much of a pain Derek still thinks that can be. Luckily, Stiles has always been good at words. 

Almost as good as he is at hockey. 

“I guess,” Derek pretends to play it coy for about half a second. “Can I kiss you before then?” 

It’s stupid, and it’s the worst time to start dating someone: mere days before the playoffs start, and things get even crazier than they already are. Derek has very little idea of what to expect, and Stiles has been a great help as he described his own playoffs experience. It means that the team has some idea of what might happen, and that they’re expecting to be overwhelmed and exhausted the whole time. Playoffs hockey is on a whole new level, and it’ll be a lot to deal with. 

To add a new relationship to that is probably crazy. But waiting isn’t going to make the feelings go away - and when the season ends, they’ll probably be devastated for a while. 

“Kiss me now,” Stiles orders, trying to look serious and failing. 

Yeah, so Derek could crack a joke right now, teasing Stiles about ordering his captain around, breaking the tension in the room. But why should he break that tension when all he wants is to follow Stiles’ orders (for once)? He might actually be smiling. 

“You’re killing me with that smile,” Stiles is pouting now. 

So yes, apparently he is smiling, as he steps in closer to Stiles, ready to kiss that pout off his face. He doesn’t manage to get there first, as Stiles basically tries to climb Derek like a tree in his eagerness, and they almost fall over because of it. Now that would be an embarrassing way to wash out of the playoffs: because they got injured while trying to make out. 

“If we get hurt like this,” Derek warns. 

“Yeah, yeah, playoffs, I know,” Stiles is still grinning impishly. 

It’s as if he never doubted that Derek would catch him, and that’s a lot. To be trusted so implicitly is rather new to Derek, and it’s thrilling and exciting, and why aren’t they kissing yet? 

Stiles makes the first move for that too, and Derek would be obvious about how unsurprised he is by that, except he’s too focused on kissing Stiles the way that he deserves to be kissed: with every bit of attention that Derek can give him, passionately pulling him as close as he can get without tipping over. Stiles’ stupidly long legs are wrapped around him. 

By the time Derek finally manages to pull away, they’re pressed against the wall, and his lips feel almost sore. He can’t imagine the amount of beard burn his own facial hair must have left on Stiles’ skin by now - but he doesn’t have to imagine any longer, he can just open his eyes (how did they end up closed anyway?) and look. 

Stiles is a vision, and Derek almost leans in to kiss him again. Almost. 

“Alright,” Derek is breathing heavy. “We need to stop, or I’ll never be able to sleep.”

That earns him another pout, because Stiles is starting to get a little more predictable now. 

“One more, for good luck,” Stiles barters. 

Derek loses count somewhere after number seven. 

* * *

They don’t win the Stanley Cup that year - that would be ridiculous. They manage to get past the first round, only to be positively slaughtered in the second. Because no team goes to the finals on the first try. And they’ve made it so much further than anyone expected, so Danvers retires with a smile on his face, and Peter starts thinking up new merchandise options. 

The next season, the stadium starts actually filling up, and people start being proud of being Wolves supporters again. 

It takes them three years (and an Olympic silver medal for Stiles), but they finally make it to the Stanley Cup finals. Derek is wearing his brand new wedding ring around his neck when he hoists the Cup at the parade. 

“You can’t make fun of me for being a robot anymore,” he tells his husband. 

“That’s fine,” Stiles grins impishly. “I have so many other things to make fun of you for.” 

THE END


End file.
